obliged during the work to have the protection of the military.  In a very extensive culture of turnip and corn crops; in drainage on a large scale; in the building of capacious farm-offices; in planting the land not of an arable quality; and latterly, in the thinning of these plantations—­all under the direction of a Scotch steward—­almost unlimited employment was given; in addition to which, the establishment of a dispensary, the constant residence of a valuable clergyman, a station for police, and the intercourse carried on by the daily running of two public vehicles, have combined to render the inhabitants of Ballyvourney as industrious and civilised as those in any part of the British islands.  They have become a quiet and peaceable race; a riot is never heard of among them; and the Stone of Victory has long been covered with lichen, moss, and grass.  The people annually assemble at the Holy Well, and go their rounds at the station; and the little image of St Gobnet, in the walls of an old church, is still looked on with adoration, and handkerchiefs thrown up to touch it, that they may bring healing virtue to the sick.  The rector’s residence is closely adjacent to the Holy Well, the station, and the image of St Gobnet, and the stone of victory within a few feet of his hall door.  Yet he can go to bed at night without a lock to a door, or a bar to a window.  Women and girls may be found in abundance who can thin and hoe turnips in the best manner.  As good ploughmen and agriculturists in the various departments may now be had in Ballyvourney as in most places.  All faction-fights are at an end; and although, little more than twenty years ago, these were the weekly Sabbath occupation, they are now like an item of an old almanac.  By employing similar means, might not other parts of this naturally fine country be equally improved, and made the abode of a thriving and contented people?

THE DAUGHTER OF THE BARDI.

A TRUE OLD TALE.

The Via dei Bardi is one of the most ancient streets of Florence.  Long, dark, and narrow, it reaches from the extremity of the Ponte Rubaconte to the right of the Ponte Vecchio.  Its old houses look decayed and squalid now; but in former days they were magnificent and orderly, full of all the state of those times, being the residences of many of the Florentine nobility.  How many struggles of faction, how many scenes of civil war, have these old houses witnessed! for in the period of their splendour, Florence was torn by intestine feuds; from generation to generation, Guelfs and Ghibelines, Bianchi and Neri, handed down their bitter quarrels, private and personal animosity mingling with public or party spirit, and ending in many a dark and violent deed.  These combatants are all sleeping now:  the patriot, the banished citizen, the timid, the cruel—­all, all are gone, and have left us only tales to read, or lessons to learn, if we can but use them.  But we are not skilled to teach a lesson; we would rather tell a legend of those times, recalled to mind, especially at present, because it has been chosen as the subject of a fine picture recently finished by a Florentine artist, Benedetto Servolino.